Agastopia
by pink.chocolate.unicorn
Summary: Dean knew he was different (hello—he had huge wings sprouting out of his back) but he didn't care. He wasn't the guy for feelings talks, or sitting around one of those mutants-are-awesome places Sam kept leaving brochures around for. Then he met Castiel. And he was starting to see the appeal of accepting oneself. (Destiel. Wing fic. Rated M; mature content/language.)
1. Chapter 1

_(A/N: Rated **M** for mature content and language._

_Hello! So... here's a lovely idea that occurred to me when I was thinking 'wings...mmmm' and I wanted to double the fun. So. Dean's a winged mutant. Castiel is an angel. See where this is going? heh. Now, the mutant thing is kinda sorta a nod to X-Men, but it's not a cross-over because I'm not really using that 'verse or any of the characters. So, it's like an AU/homage sorta thing? _I dunno—Just enjoy Dean with wings, OK?_ _So. Uhm. Lemme know what you all think? Please? *starving author puppy face*_ _[Oh. Just FYI: The title might change... still thinking that over...]_  
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_Overall warnings: MalexMale slash. AU. Language. Smut. Wing fic. Wing kink. Weird, made-up Angel customs. Accidental bonding/marriage. Angel!Castiel. Mutant!Dean. Mutant!Sam._

_Enjoy :))_

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><p>Dean Winchester looks around the deserted field for a few moments, just breathing in and taking in the quiet sounds of nature before he strips off his shirt. Not that he really needed to check, but he's satisfied he's the only one around. Probably for miles. He doesn't exactly mind stripping with an audience but letting his wings out? That shit is a solo mission. He flexes and stretches his back muscles and lets his wings unfurl from where they're tucked up tight, his shoulder's rolling as he sighs quietly with relief. It's like stretching your legs after a long car ride and it feels friggin' awesome to finally stretch them out.<p>

His shoulders bunch and shift; something feels off. He looks over his shoulder, spreading his wings out so he can look himself over. He huffs and gently grabs a wing, sliding his hand down as he brings it around his body so he can get at his feathers easier. Some are twisted this way and that and bent at odd angles like his hair gets after a good nap.

Stupid friggin' feathers.

He spends a few moments combing the errant feathers with his fingers, switching between wings every-so-often so he doesn't get a kink in his back (again), gently easing them back where they should be until they sit right. He licks his palms and smooths the feathers between his moist palms, nodding with satisfaction when everything feels as it should be. He flicks his wings back and stretches them out again, not-so-subtly admiring his wing-span (which is pretty impressive if he says so himself). They're over 30 feet wide and look kinda like an eagle's wings—_bad ass_.

He used to hate being different but he's finally come to accept—and even enjoy—his wings.

Because, yeah, he can _fly_ and that's some awesome shit right there.

He pumps his wings a few times, warming up. The familiar low burn that settles deep in his back and chest muscles feels pretty good now that he's flying regularly and his 'flying muscles' are well defined. He bends his knees a few times and he takes off into the sky, not even bothering to stifle a whoop of joy as he does so. He's learned the hard way not to go too high; it gets too friggin' cold for him the higher he goes. He contents himself with flying in lazy, looping circles, stretching his body out randomly and playing with his shadow on the ground.

./.\.

Castiel is one of the youngest Angels in his garrison, if not in all of Heaven. He's therefore the first one picked for the most mundane of tasks. Not that he minds; he very much enjoys visiting Earth for any reason. He enjoys people watching, taking in nature and just marveling at the wonders of his Father's creation. Most times, his missions take twice as long to complete because he spends so much time just watching and looking. He hasn't gotten in trouble yet (he has a feeling Gabriel enjoys his small acts of what some see as rebellion, or maybe the Archangel has similar interests and understands) and thankfully his tasks are always simple enough, time constraints aren't an issue.

He's flying low and slow today, watching his shadow dimple and wave over the long stalks of wheat and other crops. He spreads his arms out, delighted to see his shadow's shape change accordingly. His wings aren't _there_ enough to cast a shadow, so the image is rather amusing and he chuckles softly to himself. He dives and rolls, rising into the sky to avoid a large piece of farm equipment just in time to keep himself from being impaled.

Or worse—ground into angel meat.

Not that it would truly harm him, but he would most likely need a new vessel after acquiring such damage. And he's quite sure even Gabriel would be upset about that; his brother wouldn't smirk, give an indulgent eye roll and snap his fingers like he usually does when Castiel pulls one of his 'shenanigans'. Appropriate vessels aren't always easy to come by; some angels wait _generations_ for a worthy vessel. He subconsciously pats at his chest; he'd certainly miss this vessel if he allowed it to come into contact with a farmer's thrasher.

He dips and rolls a few more times, enjoying the chance to just fly without other angels making fun of him. Most see it simply as a way to get around, traveling at high speeds nearly instantaneously between destinations, instead as something to enjoy. He likes it, though. It gives him a sense of home—of freedom—when he's not Home. And he's better able to look and study as he flies slowly, taking in his surroundings.

Castiel rises a little higher, keeping his distance from anything else the might be in his way, and regretfully returns to his task that brought him from Heaven. His focus is sharp now, eyes flicking rapidly as he catalogs every grain of wheat, stalk of corn, and budding plant as he soars. Insects lazily crawling and building homes. Small animals burrowing and munching whatever crops they can reach. He's not exactly sure what he's looking for, only that Gabriel said he'd know when he saw it. Whatever _it_ is, anyway. He's been flying over Kansas for about a week now, and he hasn't found much but flat lands and fields—not that he's in any rush. He turns right, turning wide so he can inspect another swath of land.

He pulls up short, nearly tumbling over himself with the sudden stop. He hovers, still and silent, eyes widening as his breath catches in his throat.

Gorgeous, golden wings. Outstretched and arched in invitation.

Castiel stares, paused in mid-air, heedless to anything but the sight before him. Is _this_ what Gabriel has him searching for? He doesn't know, but it seems highly unlikely. Gabriel would have teased him, at least a little, if he was being sent on a Mate Search. He doesn't recognize the wings; he can't think of an angel in all of Heaven with wings like these.

Magnificent, breath-taking, gorgeous wings. He's drawn in; how could he not be?

His decent is less than graceful and he's suddenly face-first in those gorgeous, golden wings, his vessel becoming tangled with another in a clumsy, twisted heap. He stops breathing, trying to avoid the heady scent coming off the wings but it doesn't help. It's like every other sense compensates and he's nearly surrounded—_overwhelmed_. His vessel moves without his consent and his face is in the nearest wing, his own practically exploding into being and arching low to press against the slightly smaller golden ones. He makes a strange, gurgled sound as his Grace reacts and he's suddenly feeling boneless and in danger of losing control of his muscles.

There's a grunt from under him, a very deep sounding grunt, and he's being pushed at, their tangled limbs making any sort of distance quite unlikely. He's quite sure their feathers are just as entangled and he makes a curious sound deep in his throat. The limbs near him flail a little at the sound and he takes note they're strong, well formed and quite obviously _male_ limbs.

Oh well. Castiel has no regard for gender or any of those other odd human qualms about Mating. His fingers are buried in golden wings and he's quite content to never remove them. His face is still pressed into the soft feathers, greedily inhaling the amazing scent surrounding him in great gulping lungfuls. His Grace is practically singing and he makes a happy sound that reminds him of a large cat he spied once laying in a sunbeam.

"_Dude!_"

Castiel blinks a few times, registering the fact he's being spoken to. He doesn't remove himself from the body or the wings, but he does tilt his head back a little. Just enough to see messily arranged, short caramel colored hair and narrowed green eyes. And freckles—_no_, _angel kisses_, he thinks with a strange sort of giddiness. A light dusting, and just across the cheeks and bridge of a well-formed nose. Embarrassingly, it takes a few tries to get his voice to work, but he finally gets his vessel to cooperate.

"Hello," he says, voice sound like he's swallowed gravel. His throat is dry and his body is too focused on _wings, freckles, lovely eyes_ for him to really notice, though.

"Uh, hi," Dean says slowly, eyes narrowed. He's confused and completely freaked the fuck out. For several heart-stopping moments, he thought he'd been dropped by a big ass bird or something. Or maybe one of those small planes. He's marginally glad he's not splattered all over the landscape, even if he's not sure if the weirdo currently groping him is a better option, though. The guy seemed to have broken his fall so he's not hurt; just had the wind knocked out of him.

But now that he's regaining the ability to breath and not thinking he's dead or smooshed against the wheat field, he's freaking out. And getting pissed off, hands swatting at the ones trying to grope and man-handle again. Seriously, what the fuck? Every time the guy grabs at his feathers, he's torn between smacking the hands away or asking for more. Which... freaks him out even more. No body touches his feathers, not even Sam. It's all kinds of wrong he's not kneeing the guy in the junk for being so damn handsy.

And enjoying himself if the continued bad-touching and sounds he's make are any indication. He doesn't know whether to re-think the 'kneeing him in the junk' idea or let the guy have at it.

Castiel hums softly and rubs his hands along the top of the golden wings in a gentle downward sweep, palms gliding along fine, but strong bones, his thumbs briefly dipping inwards to graze along the softer feathers. The wings quiver alluringly and he's entranced, awe-struck and staring openly. He shifts enough to be able to get his other hand on the other wing, needing to feel both at once, but he's stopped by a hand on his chest. He looks down at it dumbly, confused. He looks back up, taking in the rest of the gorgeous face to go along with the breath-taking wings.

A dizzying, heated surge of _something_ goes through him and he's reacting without thinking again; leaning in for a kiss. He's seen the practice on television and purses his lips accordingly, eyes closing in preparation.

Castiel blinks when his face tilts away, and there's a low-grade sting in his jaw. It takes a few moments for him to realize he's been struck. Punched, judging by the man's still-raised fist. The man under him is glaring balefully, fist significantly reddened but raised and ready to hit him again. "Yes?" he asks, confused once again.

"Get the fuck off me, man," Dean grinds out, keeping his cool by will-power alone. His fist is throbbing just from the one punch, but he's prepared to do it again even if it breaks his damn hand. Crash landing was one thing but he was so not gonna just lay there and let some weirdo fondle him—uh, well. Anymore than he already has. The guy doesn't move, just stays sitting astride him, blinking his blue-blue eyes at him like he's got no clue what's going on. He bucks his hips up, trying to dislodge the guy.

He's fucking heavy and it has the opposite affect; the guy's legs clamp tight around his hips. And the fucker moans softly, like he enjoyed it.

Dean stills, gritting his teeth. The fact that he wants to try that again, test how turned on this hands-happy guy really is, just annoys him. His eyes narrow again and he decides he's gonna have to play dirty if he's going to get out of this with any sort of dignity. And a minimum of broken bones. "Dude, you got to the count of three to get the hell off me."

Castiel stares at the man under him. He looks enraged and he knows he should not find the angry blush alluring (it does lovely things for the light smattering of freckles across the man's cheeks and makes his gorgeous eyes practically glitter in a fetching way), but he can't seem to help himself. The golden wings are arched high, stiff, bristling and broadcasting the man's ire.

He cocks his head as he studies the beautiful wings; he really can't figure out what he's done wrong. He's vaguely aware of the man saying 'three', but not paying much mind as he's too intent on studying quivering wings and angry facial features.

Unfortunately, his vessel is rather sensitive in some areas and his eyes widen as pain explodes in his crotch. He whimpers softly as his hands cup the throbbing area and he rolls onto his side, freeing the man. His legs come up with another whimper and he's in enough pain to not care about the other new feelings coursing through his vessel at the moment.

"Shit," Dean hisses under his breath. He should not feel bad about this—the guy definitely had a punch to the dick coming—and should be glad it was a better spot than the dude's granite jaw. But he can't help feeling bad; it's a pain he can sympathize with and he can't explain why he gives a shit. Or why he feels a phantom throb to his own groin that feels like more than just sympathy pains any guys gets seeing another guy take a shot to the 'nads.

Castiel sucks in a few deep breaths, trying to focus on that instead of the pain, the sickening waves of nausea rolling through his lower body and stomach in slick, roiling, throbbing waves. He makes a mental note to discuss the vulnerability to this part of the human male's anatomy with his Father at his earliest convenience. Something needs to change about the design because this is horrible.

He whimpers again when the man approaches him, his legs coming up higher, tighter to his body in an effort to protect the area from more damage. It makes pain burst through him anew and he wonders if it'll be considered inappropriate to let the watery sting in his eyes manifest fully. Thankfully, the other man stops a few feet away, arms coming up to cross over his chest and he just... stares.

Even from Castiel's position on the ground, eyes freely watering now, he's unable to look away from the other man. His wings aren't nearly as stiff or arched any longer and the expression of aggression looks forced. But the defensive stance he's in is intimidating enough, Castiel stays put. He really has no interest in the other man giving him a repeat performance.

"So," Dean says when the guy has stopped rolling around and crying for his daddy. He doesn't know what to say. He's not going to apologize and anything else seems pointless. Once he's sure the guy isn't going to puke or anything, he turns to leave, stretching his wings out to make sure they're OK after the tumble. He flicks off some loose dirt and smooths a few errant feathers, but otherwise his wings are fine. He prepares to take to the sky again, hopefully leaving Romeo in the dust.

But damn his curiosity when he hears the guy gasp in a way that has nothing to do with his throbbing crotch. He looks over his shoulder and flexes his wings again. Sure enough, the guy's on his knees now; hands laying limp at his sides instead of cupping the family jewels as the guy stares at him—his wings—with wide-eyes and pinked cheeks.

Dean stretches and flaps his wings once, experimentally, and notices the way those blue-blue eyes follow each move with intensity. He snorts, unable to help himself. He doesn't think he'd met anyone yet that got off on feathers... "Dude. Really?"

"Yes," Castiel murmurs after a few moments, belatedly catching onto what the other man meant. "They're beautiful," he adds in an awed whisper. A heated feeling works through his own wings when the golden wings flutter then flap and arch again, tucking down low and close to the other man's body. He nearly smiles at the bashful display but a look at the man's face clues him in on that being a rather bad idea. He gets to his feet, the pain in his groin down to a low throb thankfully, and carefully regards the man. He's being glared at, as if his words are being questioned for validity.

And he cannot have the other man thinking he's anything but sincere. He steps closer, slowly and cautiously watching the other man for any other signs of violence. He doesn't reach out to touch, even though he wants to._ Needs_ to. As he gets closer, the left golden wing actually flicks forward towards him, as if responding to that need. He very nearly reaches out anyway, but he doesn't.

"Beautiful," Castiel says again. His gaze reluctantly leaves the gently trembling wing to meet narrowed green eyes and he exhales softly, a reverent sigh. "Absolutely magnificent."

Dean snorts and rolls his eyes even as a warm feeling constricts his chest. He should not care what some wing-freak thinks about his wings. But it still makes him feel a little gooey inside. He's really annoyed his wings react; fluttering a little, as if he's batting his damn eyelashes at the guy staring at them with hearts in his eyes (and—just great—a boner growing in his pants). Oddly enough, it's the awed glances the guy's giving his wings that are freaking him out more than the bulge in the guy's pants.

"I am Castiel."

Dean blinks a few times, embarrassed he'd been staring at the guy's crotch. He snaps his head up, meeting the intense blue again. He wants to fidget, but he doesn't. "Huh?"

"I'm Castiel," he repeats, dragging his gaze away from the golden wings and meeting green eyes. "My name," he adds when there's still confusion. He steps closer, using the other man's momentary disorientation to his advantage. He's close enough to touch... He doesn't but he can inhale, subtly Scent.

"Oh," Dean says, feeling really fucking stupid. "Uh. I'm Dean."

The guy makes a rumbling noise that could almost be a freakin' purr and the intense staring continues, blue eyes flicking all around to take in different parts of him. Mostly, the guy—_Castiel_—can't seem to stop looking at his damn wings, though. They do that damn fluttering thing again and he wants to grab them, hold them down. "Gotta thing for wings, buddy?"

"Yes?" Castiel says, unsure. He enjoys Dean's wings immensely but it's not a common interest of his. He's looked upon many wings before without feeling... _this_. "I like your wings, Dean," he clarifies, feeling immediately better. He doesn't want Dean to think he goes around just ogling strange wings. He sidles closer and Scents again. The smells of nature are almost overpowering Dean's but he doesn't want to get too close. Yet.

He slowly turns, keeping his gaze on Dean over his shoulder. It takes a few moments concentration, gathering his Grace, and his own wings are visible. He stretches and flaps them, fluttering them when he hears a soft sound from Dean. Excellent. He almost feared—

No matter, it's not an issue and he stops thinking about it. "Do you like my wings, Dean?"

"Uh," Dean trails off, feeling stupid again. But this time it's like his brain has switched off for anything but 'holy shit, lookit them wings!'. Which—awkward. Castiel is glancing at him over his shoulder again, chin nearly resting on the tan fabric of his goofy trench coat as he looks at back at Dean, those damn blue eyes at half-mast and hooded like a damn porno. He has about .4 seconds to wonder why the fuck he's being looked at coyly, blue nearly hidden under sooty black lashes, before his attention is back on the wings.

And, OK, yeah; he could kind of see why Castiel was spazzing out over his wings. Because while his were admittedly pretty nice to look at, Castiel's were friggin' _awesome_. They were at least 5 different colors; white, to a pale grey, to a dark golden color that blended into a chestnut as dark as the guy's hair. And they had a shine that made him want to stroke one, see if those feathers were as soft and silky as they looked.

"Yeah," Dean croaks out. He shakes himself, scowling lightly. "What the fuck, man?" Castiel merely blinked at him, eyes wide and guileless. He crosses his arms over his chest again and scowls, "What's goin' on here?"

Castiel slowly turned back around, keeping his eye on Dean. Once they are fully facing each other again, he steps closer, mere inches away. "I don't know what you mean, Dean."

"Dude, back up," Dean says, waving a hand frantically. "Personal space."

Castiel obliges, stepping back. "Apologies, Dean." He restrains the urge to move forward again, spurned on by Dean's approval of his wings, but giving Dean the space he's asked for. His head tilts a little to the right, silently asking for Dean to clarify his earlier question.

"I _mean_, what. The. Fuck?" Dean says slowly. It only gets him another head tilt (to the other side this time) that makes him grit his teeth against the 'awww!' that he wants to blurt out. Grown ass men with wings should not look like adorable puppies. It should be a law somewhere... He exhales sharply and rubs at his face. "Why're you groping me, man?"

Castiel hums and inclines his head. His eyes dart down to Dean's bare upper arm and he has to curl his hands into fists so he doesn't reach out and touch the hand-shaped brand shining brightly from the skin there. A part of him is dismayed he's done such a thing without prior plans (or explicit consent), but another is joyous at the Mating Mark left there.

He notices Dean's gaze slowly lowers, following where he'd been looking. He prepares himself for another assault when Dean shouts out an indistinct sound of surprise and outrage. It doesn't come and he slowly opens his eyes, peering at Dean curiously.

"What?" Dean breathes out, staring at the raised skin on his shoulder. Now that he's looking at it, he can _feel_ it; it's warm and tender. What the fuck? How long has that been there? Why is it there? He looks back up at Cas, eyes narrowing when he realizes Castiel is staring at the mark with something he wants to call pride. The dick. "Did you do this?" he demands, jabbing a finger towards the brand and wincing when it flairs with pain.

Castiel rushes forward, pulling Dean's hand away from the Mark. His feathers brush over the area and Dean relaxes as the pain eases but goes tense again when he realizes what just happened. He's bound to be dizzy by the sheer number of emotions his Mate goes through and portrays in rapid succession. "I did," he admits. "I hadn't intended to," he adds when he's glared at.

"And what, exactly, is _this_?" Dean asks, indicating his arm with just ahead tilt this time. He so doesn't wanna touch that... thing. Not if Castiel is gonna use some weird kind of feather mojo to make it feel better. He's trying not to freak out... Because none of this seems good.

Castiel hesitates for a moment. "It's a Mating Mark," he finally says softly. He's about to explain what, exactly, that entails when Dean's wings suddenly flap out and he takes off with a powerful thrust and rush of wind. He stares after Dean's rapidly retreating form, contemplating. Is Dean initiating some sort of Mating chase or is he in need of a moment alone to digest the information?

A low-grade flutter of panic and irritation, which he knows isn't from him, seems to roll over him and he figures it's the latter. He slowly lowers himself to the ground, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap. He idly looks up at the sky, content to wait until Dean comes back.


	2. Chapter 2

_(A/N: Rated **M** for mature content and language._

_Thank you for the follows, favorites and reviews. _

_Oh. And I have a poll up on my profile, just for funsies, so check it out? Vote early and often! heh_

_Enjoy.)_

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><p>It takes nearly a week for Dean to return. Castiel hasn't moved from his spot, even though he'd wanted to fly off to find Dean numerous times; the soft hum of Dean's side of the Bond would make it quite easy to find his wayward Mate. He'd stayed put, mainly in an effort to give Dean the space he seemed to require—something he's learned, over the past week, his Mate needs.<p>

Quite possibly often.

It'll be difficult to stay away when his urges to comfort, and sooth directly conflict with Dean's wants, but he can do it. He's reasonably confident he can succeed. While he's mastered many tasks of great import and difficulty, he knows his knowledge of Mates, humans, and Dean himself is quite limited and will present a rather definite learning curve.

His mouth twitches with a small smile when he sees Dean. He doesn't know what to make of the way the man stares, wide-eyed and obviously surprised. It nearly causes Dean to stumble as he lands, his arms waving as his feet go in numerous directions, golden wings flapping wildly to counter-balance for his rough landing. He lands in an awkward crouch, wings still splayed out, right across from the angel. They just stare at one another for a long moment.

Castiel might enjoy the moment a little too much. But he remains still and quiet, content to just bask in the afternoon sun and Dean's presence. He supposes he's got the next best thing to an eidetic memory, so there isn't anything he's forgotten about his Mate but he's enjoying the chance to re-learn everything. From the wind-tousled hair to the man's scuffed boots. He knows the moment is over when Dean twitches, his wings flapping up and out once before curling up to rest against his back.

Dean blinks a few times, feeling like he's coming back on-line as he realizes his racing heart and labored breathing from the flight have completely calmed down. Either it's been longer than he thought since he landed or Castiel is working some weird kinda mojo on him. Damn. How long had they been staring at each other? It's... creepy but _not_ at the same time. He's just glad there's no one else around to see it.

"Castiel?"

Castiel carefully stands, wiggling his legs a little once he's completely upright. The tingling sensation as blood rushes around his vessel is annoying but easily ignored now that Dean is back. He inclines his head, "Yes. Hello, Dean." He leans in a little, unable to help himself. He'd only been around Dean a short time, but he's still drawn towards him. Dean doesn't seem to notice until they're just a few inches apart and he takes a few quick, small steps backwards before Dean can admonish him about personal spaces again.

"Hey," Dean mumbles back. He can't believe the guy had been just... _sitting_ there, for close to a week. He's mostly relieved, actually. Kinda glad to see the guy—_angel_—hadn't fucked off to back Heaven or something. As much as the whole thing had pissed him off at first (royally pissed him off if he's being honest), he's lost most of the anger and he'd been drawn to come back. To see Castiel. Make sure he was OK... or something. Maybe peek at those huge, awesome wings again...

Dean takes a deep breath, studying Castiel's sensible shoes and rubbing at the back of his neck. The whole situation is so awkward, he nearly laughs. Instead, he meets Castiel's eyes, rubs a hand over his mouth and takes another deep breath.

"Okay. So. Explain," Dean says, flapping a hand at the angel and giving Castiel the chance he didn't a week ago. He slowly hunkers down to sit on the grass, trying not to be surprised when Castiel does the same without prompting, sitting across from him eagerly but still with that stoic calm. He watches with an odd sort of amusement as polyester-clad legs fold up, yoga style, and the angel wiggles a little to get comfortable.

A part of him even forgets, for a minute, that Castiel isn't exactly human and that the whole sitting thing shouldn't be borderline freakin' adorable because of it. It should be creepy and weird.

Castiel starts slowly; explaining about Heaven, angels and his tasks that regularly brought him to Earth. He tries to accurately convey the moment he saw Dean, just his wings at first, as clearly as he could, but he wound up just embarrassing Dean with his praise and exuberant words to the point of being told to 'shut up'. The words weren't overly harsh and he did recognize the pink tinge for embarrassment, so he acquiesced. He hopes to be able to say such things and have Dean believe him, enjoy hearing the praise, instead of clenching his jaw and looking away, his wings drooping a little, tucking in close to his body with self-consciousness before flapping out and fluttering with agitation.

Overall, Dean mostly just looks skeptical about everything—as most humans are wont to do when presented with an actual angel. Even the most pious and worshipful mete out distrust and occasional anger more often than not. Now that Castiel thinks about it, that reaction is most likely the reason they kept their interactions to a minimum and mainly through symbolic means. He cocks his head slightly, narrowing his eyes as he studies Dean.

"Is there anything I can do?" Castiel asks, aware of the human behavioral need of proof; something solid that can be seen, heard, felt. He can't begrudge that, but he doesn't know what Dean needs. He doesn't know what he can offer to have Dean believe him. And maybe, eventually, even earn his trust.

Dean shrugs, not knowing what he could possibly ask for. He has a feeling saying something along the lines of 'show me the money' to an angel is borderline blasphemous. Or at the very least just freakin' rude. Besides, there's already enough proof sitting right across from him, for God's sake. He tucks his wings around himself and runs his fingers through the longer feathers absently, trying not to react when he feels Castiel staring, watching every damn move he makes. His wings flutter a little in his hands and he tightens his hold on them to keep them still, muttering a few curses.

Part of him really hates that his wings react like this around Castiel; he can't seem to hide a damn thing because of his stupid feathers doin' their thing. But another part of him... kinda likes it. Wants to preen, flutter his feathers deliberately and wink obnoxiously at the attention. He can't help wondering what Castiel would do if he actually did that, either. Would the guy vapor lock or just, like, spontaneously come in his slacks?

Dean clears his throat, a little unnerved where his thoughts just went. Because—_really_? It's not like Castiel isn't hot, because even with the weird accountant get-up and stuff, he totally is. And Dean's having very unholy thoughts about the messy, dark sex-hair and those intense blue eyes that practically strip him naked and pet his damn wings... So, yeah; he should probably not be perving on angels, Mated or not, without at least knowing a little more about Castiel past the guy being into his wings, an angel, and that he makes adorable faces without even realizing it.

Shit. He thought the word _adorable_. He smothers the urge to sigh (or slam his palm into his face) and looks away, fingers sliding through his feathers in an effort to distract himself from the completely fucked up thoughts. It doesn't help much, but at least he's not being speared by Castiel's über-intense, too-freakin'-blue eyeballs of doom. He doesn't exactly hate the weird, hot squirmy feeling he gets when Castiel does that, but it's just too freaky and new to process.

His wing twitches in his hand and Dean re-focuses his attention away from weird Bonds, wing stiffies, adorable angels and the annoying teenaged-girl-with-a-crush feels he's trying to pretend are so not happening.

"I dunno, man. It's not like I don't believe you," Dean says after a few moments of quiet, gaze solely on his wing as he idly grooms his feathers. His stomach gurgles loudly and before he can curse himself for only glugging down coffee for breakfast, there's a plate being shoved towards him. He just barely manages to grab onto it so it doesn't spill into his lap.

Castiel shuffles closer, moving in awkward butt-and-hip-shuffle across the grass, trying to get Dean to look at him. Quite frankly, the cheeseburger (medium rare, extra onions and bacon) is a bit of a waste of Grace. But it's worth it to see Dean peek up at him, eyes a little wide and his expression one of surprised pleasure as he looks between him and the loaded plate a few times. He wonders if the warm feeling that ebbs through him is entirely connected to his use of Grace or directly from Dean but doesn't dwell on it too much. He simply watches Dean enjoy his burger, undisturbed, instead of asking if Dean is pleased.

It's obvious he is; even if Dean's first bite is tentative, he dives into his food with a gusto Castiel hasn't ever personally witnessed before. Dean is totally absorbed in his meal, so Castiel's focus strays to grease-shiny lips far more often than he'd like to admit. Occasionally he glances at Dean's wings, eager to be closer but content—for now—to merely observe. They're splayed out to their full span, relaxed and fluttering gently each time Dean makes a muffled happy noise as he takes a large bite and chews.

Castiel feels that warm, pleasantly heavy feeling ebb and flow through his vessel again to know he's pleased his Mate.

Dean is seconds away from thinking about licking his plate when it vanishes. He startles, hands still splayed out but holding nothing, and looks at Castiel. Right. Angel powers. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and stretches his legs out. He leans back, hands behind him to prop himself up. "Okay. We've established that you've got some mojo," he says, grinning at Castiel's slight scowl. Probably doesn't appreciate his Holy Powers of Doom being called mojo. Oh well. He has a feeling they're going to have a freakin' grand ol' time just trying to talk to each other about normal shit, let alone crazy angel marriages and all that.

"Explain this." He rolls up the short sleeve of his T-shirt and nods towards his shoulder, nearly rolling his eyes when Castiel's gaze snaps right to the exposed mark and blue eyes get little glassy. It's probably a complete mind-thing, but the whole area tingles and he nearly wraps his arms around himself, his wings twitching with a similar urge. It's not an unpleasant feeling but it's just... intense. _Too much, too soon._ He settles for sitting up, suddenly feeling too exposed in his relaxed sitting position.

Castiel nods, forcing his attention away from the Mark and Dean's wings. He knows it's inappropriate to stare, but he really can't seem to help himself; both are fascinating to him and fill him with a myriad of wonderful emotions and sensations. Quelling such urges is not something he's at all used to, they're so new, but he's getting better at it.

Mostly.

His wings are out and fluttering gently without really thinking about it. He doesn't think he could ever manage to control his Grace in that regard. Not around a distraught Mate that he knew needed reassurance. The urge to sweep his wings over Dean's is hard to resist, but he does. A logical part of him recognizes that Dean probably will mistake the gesture's intent since he is most likely unaware of Angelic customs and Mating rituals. He's able to keep himself from brushing his feathers along Dean's, too. He doesn't think that would be tolerated, at the moment, without Dean's express permission.

"I will do my best," Castiel promises. He'd spent a good portion of his past week of solitude speaking with Gabriel. After the archangel had gotten over his inappropriate bout of laughter at his expense, nearly choking on the Snickers bar he'd been munching, Gabriel had been helpful with everything he knew about Bonds, Mating and Marks and the like. Most of it was directly from various scrolls since Gabriel didn't have personal knowledge of such things, but it was very helpful.

Gabriel's 'congrats, bro!' sounded more like he'd been offering condolences, but Castiel was pleased to hear it nonetheless. He knows Dean won't like hearing most of it, but he knows better than to not tell him. So, he explains as best he can. The Mark connected to Dean's soul, their Bond. He learns quite quickly that he doesn't have to alter Gabriel's words much when speaking to Dean; except for the Enochian, his Mate easily understands every word.

He knows the most important part of his discussion with Gabriel is what Dean is waiting to hear. He doesn't want to tell Dean, quite certain it's going to cause an unpleasant reaction, but he can't _not_ tell Dean... Castiel steels himself for the worst when he lets Dean know they're not going to be able to sever the bond, not even in death would it be severed.

Consequently, death would only strengthen it. Their bond would flourish in Heaven, with Dean's soul freed of his human and earthly limitations.

Castiel isn't surprised when Dean sits up, body tense and eyes hard, narrowed and menacing, jaw clenched tightly. He doesn't have to look directly at Dean's wings to know they're arched, golden feathers bristled and puffed out aggressively. He's not thinking when he reaches over and soothes a hand over the nearest wing, fingers sliding through the feathers briefly, he just does it. The wing under his palm flicks out at him before settling, pushing up a little into his touch like an eager feline, but Dean makes no move to get closer. Or push him away.

"I really must stop acting without prior thought," he murmurs to himself, running his fingers through tawny softness. The wing quivers lightly and he bows his head to hide a small smile, even though he knows the soothing touch isn't a real solution. Still, it manages to sooth them both from the worst of the churning feelings, even if Dean looks reluctant, almost annoyed at being placated. The moment ends rather quickly so he lets his hand drop to his own lap when Dean scowls at him and curls his wings around himself protectively.

Dean takes a few deep breaths, hands clenched into fists on top of his thighs. "Okay, so, you basically angel-napped me? Copped a feel on _my soul_? Bound me to you for, like, fucking-ever? _Married_ me?" Castiel frowns a little but nods—it's a very simplistic over all explanation but not entirely inaccurate. "And we can't do anything about it?" Castiel nods again, frown shifting into an expression that's damn-near contrite. But still, dude's face barely moves; the perfect poker face. It's the drooping, big ass black wings that really clues him into Castiel actually being sorry, looking like he actually gives a damn. Even if he seemed freakin' ecstatic half the time (which he can respect, really; it can't be everyday you crash land into your damn soul-mate), he can tell Castiel is just as unhappy about the _how_ as he is. Perhaps more-so now that he knows how big Heaven is on consent and all that shit.

He almost wants to do some wing petting and tell Castiel it's all good. That they're sharing this shit-sandwich down the middle, apparently.

He doesn't though. He just ignores that insane, stupid little urge and the ridiculously effective kicked-puppy look and grits his teeth.

Dean gets to his feet, feeling the need to move. Pace. Castiel stands as well, but doesn't do anything but watch him walk around as he mutters to himself like a nutjob. He tries to control the way his wings flap and arch and puff up and flutter, but he can't. Not around Castiel, anyway. And it's just one more thing to be annoyed about, as far as he's concerned. He likes being able to shove his feelings into a little ball and ignore them instead of making a show of them. He _likes_ being able to convincingly lie through a shit-eating grin when all he wants to do is curl up or punch something until his hands bleed.

He can't do any of that around Castiel and it irks the fuck out of him. He clenches his teeth and paces some more.

Dean stills, turns and looks at Castiel. He kinda wants to give the guy the hairy eyeball for getting him—_them_—into this whole clusterfuck of a situation. But after all that Castiel told him, he just can't. He knows Castiel didn't do any of this on purpose, or even with any sort of conscious thought. Just a 'wrong place, wrong time' kinda thing; one of those awesome things he stepped in thanks to the Winchester luck that runs towards 'shitty' more often than not. And really, he's just as stuck with having Dean for a Mate as the other way around... So.

"Okay," he finally says, eyeing Castiel for a moment and weighing his options. He tries some of that Zen breathing crap Sam's always doing and it kinda helps, at least he's not red-lining anymore. "How does this work?"

Castiel steps closer, pleased when Dean doesn't back away or bristle at his closeness. He inclines his head and pauses long enough to sort his thoughts out; it's been a very long time since he's paid any mind to Mating or Bonds. But Gabriel's brief summarization is still fresh in his memory. "When two angels—"

"I ain't an angel, man," Dean says shortly, cutting off whatever bullshit he's about to hear about true love or angel sex. Any other time, it would probably amuse the hell out of him to hear anything that started out like an awkward, angelic version of The Talk. He rubs at his face tiredly, snorting a soft, sardonic laugh, hands crossing across his chest defensively. "I'm just a human—a human with jacked up genes," he adds with a meaningful head tilt. His wings flutter for emphasis and immediately get the angel's attention.

Castiel's attention is torn between then man's well fitting jeans (which are not 'jacked up'; they're actually riding quite low on the man's hips—almost indecently so) and the gorgeous wings. They're held stiffly and flicking occasionally with irritation. Still, they're hard to look away from because he can see the delicate, golden undersides and the fluffier feathers at the top are puffed out alluringly. He's reaching out to touch before he's even aware of it.

He's very aware of his hand being smacked, though. He looks at his hand, surprised more than in any pain, but his gaze returns to the large wings. They're nearly impossible to look away from; posture positively alluring and magnificent in their—

"Eyes up here, buddy," Dean says, torn between amusement and annoyance at Castiel's absolute wing-boner. He snaps his fingers in front of Castiel's face to get the angel to make eye contact before pointing at his own face with two fingers. Now he's kinda got an inkling how people feel when he stares at various body parts, as if they were nothing more than a nice rack or a great ass. Castiel looks up and there's finally eye contact—intense as fuck eye contact that makes him shiver as warmth practically explodes through him. Stupid blue eyes, stupid damn Bond...

Castiel clears his throat. The physical reactions he keeps having to Dean is just another thing to get used to, apparently. He'll adapt. "Yes. My apologies, Dean. And you being 'just a human'—" He makes quotes with his fingers, frowning a little at the implication of it being considered inferior. "Well. As you can see, that doesn't change the fact a Bond formed. An angel's Grace is... quite like a human's soul."

"So, our souls—what? Got boners for each other and we're stuck with each other now?"

Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes or sigh. It's crude but accurate enough. "Essentially, yes."

"And it's permanent?" Dean presses, the crease between his brows getting deeper when Castiel nods once. "No angel divorce court we can hit up?"

Castiel frowns. They've already discussed this. "No, Dean."

There a long, not exactly awkward, silence as Dean stares at the cloud-less sky and Castiel stares at Dean.

Dean has no idea what the fuck to say and he's annoyed there's any part of him that's warm and squishy, practically doing cartwheels about the fact they're bonded. Freakin' hitched. It doesn't seem to matter it's a guy—or an angel—just that there's a feeling of _finally whole_ filling some void he had no idea was even there in the first place. It's disconcerting and more than a little annoying, really. His wings flutter when he looks at Castiel again; at least the angel is hot. And so far, Castiel's reactions seem a good indicator he's not gonna be stuck with a complete weirdo forever. Or in some weird, sexless angel courting _thing_ forever.

Not that he's at all thinking of sex. Or sexy thoughts. About anything. Or any angels in particular. No, his fingers totally do not want to memorize the texture of the angel's dark hair or his damn feathers and his lips are not tingling and jonsing to see if Castiel's lips are as soft and awesome as they look.

Nope. He's the king of self delusion and he's definitely not at all curious what's under the holy accountant get-up.

Dean clears his throat and goes back to staring at the clouds, forcing his thoughts from inappropriate sexy-things to the Bond and other, more important, angel-related stuff. He's mastered the art of rolling with the punches, so this is just another one to go with. He sneaks another peek at Castiel and silently tells himself it could be a lot worse. Castiel could've insisted they _consummate_—because he knows that's how Castiel would put it, the weirdo—their thing in the middle of a field, kidnapped him to spend his days... wherever angels spend their time, demanded things of him that would've made this a lot harder (and awkward) than they already were.

Of course, he can't outright just submit to the angel. Fuck that. Dean is practical, but no push-over. He rubs at his stiff neck and decides to see what they're working with. Spend some time together, let Sam meet the angel, get back to work; basically, just clue Castiel in on what the hell life with Dean Winchester will entail. It can't be too bad if they're all _meant to be_ and all that Disney princess _happily ever after_ shit, right?

Castiel is expecting some further comment, but Dean merely closes his eyes and sighs softly, a hand working at where his neck and shoulder meets to massage the tense muscles. He startles when Dean looks at him suddenly, eyes narrowing and mischievous. He wonders if he should be nervous or excited to see another emotion besides annoyance, frustration or anger from Dean.

There's a curious warm, bubbly feeling near his Grace and he hopes it's from Dean; feeling such things is a good sign. He offers a small encouraging smile.

"Alright then, Cas," Dean says brightly, moving over to clap the angel on the shoulder. It's a very firm shoulder and he gives the area a squeeze, shamelessly copping a feel, before he can stop himself. Castiel's blue eyes are intense—what else is new?—but hold warmth and surprise as the angel glances from his hand before resuming eye contact. He expected more of a reaction to the nickname (because, what a freakin' mouthful to have to say all the time) but Cas just gives him a slightly dopey smile, nose crinkling a little and those stupid blue-blue eyes all liquid-y and gooey.

Son of a bitch, that's just all kinds of adorable and Dean nearly has a cutegasm. This might be easier than he first thought... even if he's already fearing for his manliness.

Dean manages to keep his hands to himself and just grins, shaking his head a little to see Cas go from 'bad-ass' to 'angelic puppy' in .8 seconds. He gives Cas another squeeze before dropping his hand. As much as he'd like to get a bit more hands-on, especially since the angel doesn't seem to have a problem with it, there are other things to focus on.

He claps his hands together, rubbing them in a way that's probably slightly maniacal as he smirks a little. "Time to meet the family."

Castiel nods, smile growing a little with anticipation.

./.\.

Castiel shifts uncomfortably under the younger Winchester's stare. The man is a few inches taller than him, and he's very effectively using those inches to tower over him. The man's large, sturdy build would be physically intimidating under different circumstances. The hazel eyes that previously held warmth and good humor when he first saw Dean, greeting his older brother with a short but strong hug, are now glaring at him harshly. Sam's jaw is clenched and his arms are crossed as his gaze flicks between him and Dean. Sam's large brow furrows and the attention is now focused on Dean, making Castiel nearly fidget with the urge to stand in front of him, his wings out and hands ready for a fight.

He might be over-reacting but he can't seem to quell the protective urge. He knows how brothers can be, after all. It doesn't help his urges that Dean's wings are out, broadcasting his every emotion and reaction to the conversation. His own twinge with the need to be shown, blanket Dean and entwine with his reassuringly.

"I don't get it," Sam finally says, breaking his glare-off with Dean only long enough to rub at his face and push his hair back. Part of him isn't surprised; Dean flirted with anyone that looked twice, male or female. But he's unsettled and a little pissed off at the entire situation because his brother, essentially, has been freakin' Bonded. Unwillingly. For a damn week! And he's looking surprisingly OK with it, even shifting closer to the brother-stealing-dickhead with wings as the story is told.

He narrows his eyes when the angel—Castiel, he reminds himself; might as well remember his freakin' brother-in-law's name—steps even closer to Dean, standing a little in front of him and giving off the vibe of an angelic attack dog. He'd snort with amusement if he wasn't pretty sure the guy could actually do some damage if he thought it necessary. He wants to bristle the guy would expect him to attack his own brother.

It's not like they haven't had physical fights, but that's what brothers _do_. They might've come to blows a time or two but he wouldn't actually try to kill him or anything extreme like that.

Even if this whole thing is so fucked up for _everyone_, someone needs a freakin' punch for it. He'd rather it was Castiel, but he has a feeling that won't end up so well.

"Son of a bitch," Dean mutters under his breath. He tucks his wings back when they twitch with the urge to flutter up and flick out with irritation, mostly so Castiel doesn't get all handsy in front of Sam. He rubs a hand along the back of his neck, tilting his head back a little and rolling some of the tension out. He glares at his brother, annoyed at the stiff posture and protective bullshit he's pulling. Even at the best of times, he didn't handle that very well because it just wasn't right; he protected Sam, not the other way around, dammit.

He crosses his arms over his chest. "How many times I gotta explain this, Sammy?"

"_Sam_," he automatically corrects, pulling a face. "And at least seven," Sam deadpans.

Castiel leans forward a little, his attention on Sam, "Seven is a powerful number," he offers, hoping to get on Sam's good side. He'd noted the many books scattered around the small home, and knowing Dean's reading pleasures leaned towards fantasy and science fiction, he figured Sam would appreciate knowledge. "The number seven in the Bible is considered one of the most powerful and lucky numbers in scripture, according to the practice of gematria. A prime example is the Creation of the world, accomplished by God in seven days according to Genesis."

"Fascinating," Sam cuts in, voice the same flat tone as he nods along with exaggerated movements. Not that the angel even notices; he just keeps talking, expression guileless and eager.

Dean glares between his brother and... well, his angel. Castiel is completely unaware Sam is being a mega-douche; he just keeps talking, his eyes a little wide with intense focus and passion as he talks nerdy to an uninterested Sam. Part of him is stupidly smitten that Cas is so... adorably naïve—which is weird and altogether a little disconcerting so he shoves it to the back of his mind (for now, and probably forever). And the other part wants to punch Sam in the arm hard enough to give him a permanent charlie horse for being a sarcastic dickbag.

Castiel nods and hurries to continue, "Yes. The Hebrew word for 'luck', _gad_, equals seven in gematria. The number seven appears commonly in the Bible—" He cuts himself off when Sam's glare intensifies, brows pulled together and down over narrowed eyes, looking supremely unimpressed and borderline angry. He eases back a step, unconsciously seeking Dean. He's not afraid of Sam but he's unwilling to say or do anything that will irrevocably strain his relationship with Dean's brother. His Bond with Dean is forever and he can't imagine spending any of it at odds with Sam, someone he already knows Dean holds dear.

He nearly smiles when he feels the barest brush of feathers along the back of his neck and shoulders, pleased at the subtle sign of reassurance. But he knows by now Dean wouldn't appreciate a reciprocal reaction. His mate is rather full of strange, often times completely contradictory, behaviors. But he's learning... So, he accepts the gesture even if it feels rather selfish and lets his shoulder's relax, letting Dean know his touch is helping. Wanted. Appreciated.

And it doesn't take Castiel long to understand why he's being met with hostility and thinly veiled contempt. It makes his skin and Grace prickle uncomfortably to know he's the target of such emotions and thoughts from Dean's family. He dips his head a little, intent on showing Sam the utmost respect. He can feel Dean shift next to him, making a sound akin to a disgusted scoff that flutters along his nape. He's not sure who Dean is upset with but a little part of him aches, regardless.

"I am sorry about the way our... relationship developed, but not that it _has_," Castiel says softly, speaking to Sam. He's already said this to Dean, and while it's a private matter, he feels it's important Sam knows. He can feel Dean's irritation, wants to look back at golden wings he can virtually feel to be twitching with annoyance and puffed with indignation, wants to apologize and sooth.

However, this is important and he continues, "The Bond wouldn't have been possible were we not Soul Mates."

Sam hums and stares at Dean. His brother pulls a face before looking way. Even so, he can tell Dean is actually blushing! And his wings are all twitchy. Weird. Not just that Dean would blush, but that he's standing there with his wings hanging out without a hint of embarrassment. Even around him, Dean tended to keep his wings tightly furled up, tucked up against his back or under a jacket. Something unclenches at the sight of his brother looking a little like a smitten idiot, unselfconscious about his wings for probably the first time in his life. His eyes narrow as he watches one flick towards Castiel, just the tip sweeping across the angel's shoulder for a brief moment.

Long enough to make it really freakin' clear Dean is more OK with this whole thing than he first thought. At least, OK enough to not want to pound Castiel into the dirt and actually offer a subtle comfort, even while standing right in front of him. _Weird_.

"Okay," Sam says slowly, exhaling. "That doesn't make it all okay that you basically hijacked my brother, forced him into this," he says, waving a hand between his brother and Castiel with a rude flick of his wrist. He idly wonders if he's pushing his luck, speaking that way to a freakin' angel. He's pretty sure people have been smote for less... But Castiel merely nods, eyes averted and expression the epitome of penitence.

"No," Castiel says, head bowing once again. He knows that and he imagines he'll be trying to make up for that until his last breath. While the Bond happened beyond his control, he would never—_could_ never—take a Mate without any kind of consent.

Sam snorts, eyes narrowing. "Exactly. I don't know what you want me to say, but I'm not gonna be throwing daisies at your big gay wedding any time soon."

"_Sam_," Dean says through his teeth. He glares when Sam just gives him an innocent look, all big puppy-eyes and 'what?' face like he has no idea he's being a super-douche. Asshole.

But it does bring up a good question: did he just get gypped out of an actual wedding? And, more importantly, a wedding reception?


End file.
